


Festive Feast

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [21]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Gift Giving, Love, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 11:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21899350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: A miracle ignites the logs in the fireplace, though he takes the time to switch on the tree lights by hand, watching as one strand after another illuminates in coils of starlight on the branches. The reflections play across the baubles, twinkling and dancing on the ceiling. Where there was nothing the night before, there is now a generous pile of gifts, all wrapped in shades of red and green.Crowley is, of course, still asleep, but by the time he surfaces, Aziraphale intends to have everything ready and as perfect as can be.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hunger [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1407112
Comments: 61
Kudos: 226





	Festive Feast

**Author's Note:**

> I did plan on posting this on Christmas day, but since I'll be with family, there's no guarantee I'll have time, so here's an early Christmas gift :)

The weather isn’t quite cold enough for a true white Christmas, but as Aziraphale makes his way through the house on Christmas morning, he can see the garden is sheened with the lightest of frosts, shimmering and sparkling in the dawn’s light.

He pauses in the living room, standing by the window and gazing out, as he ties the cord of his comfortable tartan dressing gown. Everything is crisp and fresh. Even inside the house, a little of the morning’s chill has crept in.

A miracle ignites the logs in the fireplace, though he takes the time to switch on the tree lights by hand, watching as one strand after another illuminates in coils of starlight on the branches. The reflections play across the baubles, twinkling and dancing on the ceiling. Where there was nothing the night before, there is now a generous pile of gifts, all wrapped in shades of red and green.

Crowley is, of course, still asleep, but by the time he surfaces, Aziraphale intends to have everything ready and as perfect as can be.

The kettle has boiled, the tea and coffee in their respective pots, and the breakfast table is laid with an array of the few little morning treats Crowley has enjoyed. It’s not what anyone could call a traditional table, certainly not for a quiet little corner of England. There are a selection of delicacies from around the world. And, of course, as ever, the bowl of honey.

The creak of the bedroom door lets him know he won’t be alone for long, so he prepares Crowley’s mug of coffee, exactly as he likes it, just as his lover shuffles into the kitchen, still yawning. He’s shuffling far more than usual and looks like he’s trailing half the bed with him.

“A little cold?” Aziraphale guesses with a smile.

“Ngh.” Crowley confirms, shuffling all the way around the table and opening his blanket cape to wrap it around Aziraphale as well. “M’r’nin.”

Aziraphale gathers him close, letting Crowley leech a little of his warmth. “Good morning to you too, my dear,” he murmurs fondly, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “And a merry Christmas.”

Crowley drowsily butts his cheek against Aziraphale’s. “H’py Wrong-date-day.” He drops his face to snuffle into Aziraphale’s shoulder and his nose really is very cold.

“You should have your coffee,” Aziraphale says, gently disentangling himself from Crowley’s cape. “It’ll warm you up.”

“You’re better,” the demon protests, but he loosens his arms and shuffles back around, plopping himself down on his usual chair and pulling the blankets all around him like a woollen cocoon. A skinny hand pokes out, snagging the mug, then the grumbling pile of blankets hunkers down, silent but for the occasion slurp of coffee.

Aziraphale sits in his own chair, pouring a cup of Earl Grey, then sits and waits for Crowley’s caffeine-system to groan its way back to consciousness.

First sign is the thump of the mug back on the table. Used to be a cup until he splintered too many of them. Now, only a sturdy mug will do. The next is the attempt at subtle sniffing of the air with both nose and tongue.

Then the cocoon cracks open and a slightly rosier face peers out at the table. “Is that taftoon?”

“Mm-hm.” Aziraphale scrapes a little butter on his toast then layers a thick smear of lemon curd on top.

“And kanafeh?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale leans forward and points with his knife. “And some tamagoyaki, some of that sweet porridge from Switzerland and several Turkish cheeses.” He sits back and meets Crowley’s dazed, pleased smile with one of his own. “You’ve tolerated all my festive cheer for this long. I wanted to give a little something back.”

Crowley’s is positively glowing. “I didn’t think you knew about these,” he says, shrugging the cocoon further down so he can reach out and stack the delicious mismatch of foods onto his plate. “I mean, yeah, we’ve eaten them before, but I didn’t know you knew I liked them.”

Aziraphale’s heart feels like it expands to twice the size at the joyful wonder on Crowley’s face. “My darling, I know I seem to give food all my attention when we dine, but don’t imagine I don’t notice when you enjoy something.”

Crowley gives him a beaming smile, his cheeks full. “Good angel,” he mumbles around a mouthful. He gives the coffee pot a hopeful look. “S’more?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale laughs, leaning over to refill his mug.

For a change, Crowley is the one dining with gusto and Aziraphale is more than happy to sit and watch him over his tea and toast. It’s not that Crowley is an especially fussy eater. Indifferent is probably a more accurate term, so to know he has found the means to make Crowley excited at the breakfast table is a thrill all of its own.

“You’re enjoying this,” Crowley grumbles cheerfully around another mouthful of food. “Turning the tables.”

“Perhaps a little,” Aziraphale admits with a chuckle. “You have to admit I rarely have the opportunity.”

Crowley’s chair screeches along the floor as he inches it sideways around the table until he’s close enough to lean his quilted papoose sideways and against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, then shoves a freshly-peeled lychee into Aziraphale’s mouth when the angel opens it to say something in return. “Nope. No words, angel. You’re taking the thanks yous as they are.”

The lychee is sweet and tart and delicious, but as soon as he swallows it, he squeezes out a “your welcome” before Crowley can cram another fruit into his mouth.

“Angel!” Crowley laughs, smearing juice all over his lips. “Can’t let someone else have the last word, can you?”

“’o.” Aziraphale’s mouth is full of sweet, dripping fruit. He swallows again, then lifts a napkin to dab the spilled nectar from his chin, but Crowley gets there first, kissing the breath from him, then lapping every spilled trickle from his skin. “Mm.”

Sticky-sweet kisses move down his throat, punctuated with delightful stinging bites.

“Crowley…” he tries to reproach, but it comes out as more of a sigh. There’s too much mess, too much in the way, too much of...

“Got you a present,” Crowley murmurs against his skin. “Want it?”

He draws back a little way. “Is that a euphemism?”

Crowley blinks at him as if he hasn’t quite followed, then bursts out laughing. “No! You dirty bugger! And at the breakfast table!” He props his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder and kisses his ear. “Though if you want that right now…”

Aziraphale pinks warmly. “Well, you were making a game start of it,” he says with a sniff. He takes a pointed and suitably indignant sip of his tea. Of course, curiosity is a devilish beast. “What… kind of present are you talking about?”

“Oh, a few bits and pieces,” Crowley says airily, nuzzling his way happily along Aziraphale’s jaw. “Can go and get them now, if you’re done.”

Aziraphale tilts his head to claim a kiss. “If _you’re_ done, dearest,” he murmurs. “This is part of my gift for you.”

Crowley is suddenly bolt upright and quivering like a sugar-hyped child. “You got me presents?”

Aziraphale doesn’t even try to stifle the laughter. “After all of this preparation and decoration, you thought I would miss out on my favourite part of the holiday?” He turns his head and nods towards the tree. “I assume you didn’t–”

Abruptly, there’s a demon in his lap, hands on his face and an eager, delighted mouth on his. He abandons his tea and slides his hands up Crowley’s back, the silk pyjamas slithering wonderfully against his lover’s skin.

“Best angel,” Crowley breathes against his lips.

“Well, obviously,” Aziraphale laughs, giving him a gentle squeeze at the waist. He nudges the tips of their noses together. “Have you eaten your fill?”

The way Crowley’s eyes rake over his face kindle another kind of fire in his belly. “Of the food, yeah.”

“Only of the food?”

A forked tongue flickers along his lips and all at once they’re kissing again, but this time, Crowley is the one to draw back. He leans sideways, peering into the living room, then licks his lips and looks back at Aziraphale.

“Tough decision?” Aziraphale asks innocently, giving his backside an encouraging squeeze.

“Gnaaaaaaaah!” Crowley groans, giving him a shake by the shoulders. “Not fair! Distracting!”

The angel laughs, taking pity and lifting his hands away. “Go on,” he says. “Have a proper Christmas morning. We can… eat our fill later.”

Crowley is off his lap in a blink, but he pauses to claim one, last heated kiss. “Oh, you have _no_ idea, angel,” he purrs, then disappears through into the living room with a giddy whoop.

Aziraphale retrieves his teacup and follows in time to see Crowley crash headlong into the pile of gifts, scrabbling through them like an excited child. The first rip of paper is like the horn blasting on the final day. The end of times has come for those beautifully-wrapped parcels.

Even if he doesn’t especially like the contents, his joy is a wonderful thing to behold.

Aziraphale dips his hand into his dress gown pocket and pulls out the camera. It’s pure indulgence, taking picture after picture, as Crowley turns their living room into a nest of shredded Christmas confetti and boxes and delight.

Later, he thinks, he’ll put together a photo album of Crowley’s first proper Christmas. That’s what it is, this time. Last year was too new and tender and still finding their feet. Now, they’re home and Crowley is _happy_ and Aziraphale has never been happier.

“Angel!” Crowley hauls a bundle of thick black fabric out of one of the boxes. “What’s this?”

Aziraphale abandons his tea again. “You have it upside down.”

“Oh. Right.” A bit more wrestling – and a hand from Aziraphale – gets it the right way up. “S’a coat?”

“A dressing gown,” Aziraphale corrects, smiling. “Since you’re always cold in the morning.” He holds out his hands. “May I?”

Crowley hands it up to him and Aziraphale shakes it open, loosening the knot at the belt. It’s thick and fleecy and exactly what a chilly serpent demon needs. Crowley fingers the fabric with a happy grin. “It’s huge,” he says.

“All the better to thoroughly wrap yourself in,” Aziraphale agrees, holding it open like the very best of valets. “Try it.”

Crowley scrambles up and Aziraphale slips the dressing gown on. It’s far too big, of course, but the best ones always are. It’s as long as his ankles and has a deep hood and Crowley laughs as Aziraphale slips his arms around Crowley’s waist to tie the belt. “Ah, I see through your cunning ruse! This was all a ploy to get to tie me up.”

Aziraphale chuckles and drops a kiss below his ear. “Darling,” he murmurs, “since when did I need an excuse?”

Crowley sways back into him, leaning against his chest. “Point taken.” He covers Aziraphale’s hands with his own and gives them a squeeze. “S’cosy.”

“No more cold hands down my pyjamas at the breakfast table?” Aziraphale inquires.

“Eh.” Crowley twists to look back at him. “We’ll see.” He drops a kiss on the angel’s cheek, then wriggles free and returns to the pile of presents. He’s already opened the pack of cleaning equipment for the car, the fancy pair of driving gloves, the Bentley-shaped keyring and a brand new rubber duck.

The more significant presents, Aziraphale ensured to put at the bottom of the pile.

The angel sits down on the couch, watching indulgently.

Once, Crowley’s smiles were small, guarded and rationed out, but that was then. Now, his eyes are bright and every part of him is sparkling with pleasure. Perhaps it’s the time they’ve taken to know one another better than ever before, the lack of fear, the opportunity to be honest with themselves and with one another, to simply _be_. Whatever it is, it looks very good on Crowley.

“D’you want me to go and get your stuff?” Crowley asks suddenly, his fingers buried in a mess of ripped paper around a box. “Bit unfair, me having all the fun and you just…watching.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, smiles. “I’m having plenty of fun.” He flutters his hand. “Go on. I enjoy seeing you enjoy yourself. You know that.”

Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice and the wrapper rips in a long unfurling strip. A lot of the parcels are nonsense gifts, silly recollections of their many, many years. Crowley rolls his eyes so hard at the copy of Hamlet that it’s a wonder they don’t roll right out of his head. The fact that it’s the illustrated children’s version amuses Aziraphale far more than it should.

A new belt, beautifully-tooled by a leather worker in Istanbul. A bath oil scented to Crowley’s own particular tastes. Some elegant hairpins for the days when Crowley feels the need to be especially glamorous. A white-gold ear-cuff in the shape of a coiling serpent. So many little things, each carefully selected.

They’re not really anything Crowley needs, but with each one, the demon wriggles happily, placing them in careful order on the coffee table while the mountain of paper grows around him. Aziraphale captures moment after moment with the camera, his cheeks aching with the breadth of his smile.

Finally, the last parcel is reached. Aziraphale watches with bated breath as Crowley hums and turns the box into his lap, whipping off the long silky ribbon holding it closed. He pulls it open and immediately stills.

“Oh…” he breathes, lifting out the ridiculously long and beautifully-coiled length of scarlet rope. It’s far longer than anything they have used before, made for a much, much more specific purpose than merely tying one’s hands or one’s torso. It’s well-worked, perfectly soft and Crowley runs his fingers along it with all the respect due to a holy relic.

“When you’re ready,” Aziraphale murmurs, “we can be a little more adventurous. If you would like.”

Box, rope and wrapping paper are all put aside and Crowley scrambles on his knees through the chaos to Aziraphale’s feet, surging up to fling his arms around the angel. “I’d like,” he breathes in Aziraphale’s ear. “God I would _like_.”

Aziraphale draws him close, burying his fingers in the thick fluff of Crowley’s dressing gown. “I thought you might,” he teases, dropping a kiss on Crowley’s earlobe. “But only when you’re ready, darling.”

Crowley sits back on his heels, propped his elbows on Aziraphale’s splayed thighs. “Not today,” he says. “Presents and stuff today.” He licks his lips with anticipation and Aziraphale cannot help but reach out and cup his cheek, stroking his thumb along the demon’s sharp cheekbone. Crowley leans into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. “Special day for that. Just for that.”

“Too many distractions today?” Aziraphale guesses with a smile.

Crowley turns his head to kiss the heel of Aziraphale’s hand. “Mm-hm.” And then he’s on his feet. “Stay put,” he says, stooping to drop a kiss on top of Aziraphale’s head. “It’s my turn now.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly, then sets to work gathering the abandoned paper into a tighter, slightly smaller pile. He’s piling it into a bin bag when Crowley burst back into the room, an outsized bag held in one hand and supported by the other. It’s positively bulging with gifts and Aziraphale’s world becomes warm and soft, the bin bag falling, forgotten, from his hands.

“I thought you thought this was a ridiculous festival,” he says, when Crowley drops to sit cross-legged at his feet. “You certainly behave like it was.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to take any excuse I can get to spoil to you rotten,” Crowley counters, grinning. He sets the bag down between Aziraphale’s feet. “And it’s not like you haven’t outdone me be a mile with your little mountain.”

Aziraphale leaned down, catching the back of Crowley’s head and kissing him. “The size hardly matters, darling.”

Crowley’s face twists as if he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Mm. Right.” He nudges the tip of his nose against Aziraphale’s, then takes the camera from him and sits back on his heels. “Go on, angel. Indulge.”

There are a dozen gifts and every single one of them has clearly been wrapped by Crowley. For want of a better description, it looks as if he has elected to roll the item in paper then wrap it in sellotape. He has, considerately, provided a small pair of scissors.

Aziraphale picks them up with a chuckle.

“I got a bit carried away,” Crowley says with a haughty sniff. “Couldn’t make them stay shut otherwise.”

“One would almost think you didn’t want me to get into them,” Aziraphale teases, cutting delicately along the seam of a very bottle-shaped object. The paper blooms open around it and he uncovers the label. It’s a wine he’d only ever tried once and lamented that he had never been able to find more. “Oh, Crowley! You remembered!”

Crowley rocks happily at his feet. “Well, yeah. You wouldn’t shut up about it for seven years, would you?”

“Where on earth did you dig it up?”

“Dig it up… good choice of words…” The demon widens his eyes innocently. “Let’s call it a treasure hunt.”

“Did this treasure hunt involve an oenophile’s secure cellar by any chance?”

“_Technically_.” Crowley sways his hand from side to side. “Maybe. A bit. But he was an arsehole and wasn’t going to drink it. He’ll never notice it’s gone.”

“And we shall thoroughly enjoy it,” Aziraphale says, tracing the label with his fingertips. “This one, we _can_ enjoy today.”

A selection of square and rectangular boxes follow, though with the amount of paper and tape all over them, it was difficult to tell what shape they were without carefully-scissored surgery. Truffles of both sweet and savoury varieties, an absurdly rich paté, a pair of fluffy white earmuffs were eventually revealed.

“You know me too well,” Aziraphale says, trying on the earmuffs at once. They may look utterly ridiculous, but Crowley beams at him and he vows then and there that this shall become a little tradition, these little indulgences, a morning of pleasure and joy. He set them aside, then reaches for the largest parcel, a flattish, squarish parcel easily half a meter wide.

“Not that one!” Crowley exclaims, catching his wrist. “That one’s last.”

There is, no doubt, a reason, though now, Aziraphale’s curiosity is piqued.

Still, he digs his way through the rest of the parcels – caramelised almonds, a pair of slippers with tartan trim to match his dressing gown, an exquisite tortoiseshell brush and comb set – until there are only two left. The mystery square, he leaves, but the other parcel, he eyes with deepest suspicion.

There can be no mistaking the shape, though the length of the thing is rather alarming. Even wrapped, he can feel the way it wobbles in his hand. Crowley gives a half-muffled gasp of a laugh, his fingers crushing over his mouth, and Aziraphale tries very hard to pretend to be cross with him. He doesn’t do a very good job, given that he waggles the… parcel at him reproachfully, which only makes Crowley laugh the louder.

“Do I have to unwrap it?”

Crowley brandishes the camera. “Yes. Don’t want to make me sad on Christmas, do you?”

The width of his grin suggests that would be a miracle indeed.

Aziraphale sighs – a little overdramatically – and reaches for the scissors.

“You may have gone overboard with the… protection on this one, dearest,” he says, several minutes and much careful cutting later. He can see a glimpse of glittering white, but not much more.

Crowley snaps his fingers at once and the tape splits, but Aziraphale still has to root about through the paper to uncover his gift. It’s almost as large once the packaging is all removed, long and pale and thick and enough to make his ears pink.

“Oh _really_, Crowley. This is… it’s… well, it’s a bit _much_, don’t you think?”

The demon props his elbow on Aziraphale’s knee, cupping his chin in his hand. “No such thing,” he says, tilting it up and giving it a provocative wiggle. “Bet it could take you places you’ve never been before, angel.” His eyes glint. “D’you know it’s meant to fit with my harness?”

It is?

“Can you imagine me with it on?”

Aziraphale’s mouth is suddenly rather dry. Oh, he can.

Crowley wraps his hand around it, as if to lift it away. “But if you don’t want it…”

Aziraphale catches his wrist. “Don’t be silly,” he says, though his face grows hotter at the knowing smirk on Crowley’s face. “It’s… it’s a very thoughtful gift.”

Crowley kneels up, nose-to-nose. “And I’ll look forward to… giving it to you again.”

Aziraphale cups his cheek. “Darling, you are _terrible_…”

Crowley snickers. “I know,” he says into a kiss. He hums and it takes a moment for Aziraphale to recognise the two repeating notes, just as the tip of the monstrous thing rises into his line of sight and Crowley’s hum rises in pitch and volume.

Aziraphale bursts out laughing, pushing it away from his face. “Hardly a shark, is it?”

“A wand, then?” Crowley waves it with a flourish. “For my first trick, I’ll make all your clothes disappear!”

Aziraphale reaches out to stop it flailing around. “You just bought it so you can play with it, didn’t you?” he says, setting it carefully aside on the side table. It can stand up, he notices. There appears to be a small sucker to hold it in place. How… practical.

“That and making you blush,” Crowley says cheekily, sitting back again. He nudges the bag. “Last one.”

Aziraphale reaches into the bag, withdrawing the mystery square. Through the layers of paper, he feel some kind of spongy wrapper and beneath that, it feels like a frame. A picture, then? Some little piece of decoration for their home? It feels rather more personal than so many of his gifts for Crowley and he hesitates.

“What is it?”

Crowley props his arms on the edge of the couch cushion. “Open it and find out.” His cheeks are pink, which doesn’t happen often by its own volition. He ducks his head down, propping it on his arms, as if preparing to hide in them if need be.

That more than anything makes Aziraphale more careful. He doesn’t even dare risk the scissors this time and instead miracles the tape away. The paper comes loose under his hands and he lays the parcel on his knees to open it. A huge sheet of bubble wrap is wrapped all the way around it and he loosens that too, finally revealing a lovely walnut frame and what appears to be an unfolded napkin.

“What on earth…” he begins, then recognises Crowley’s handwriting all over the napkin.

His heart gives an odd little flutter. In bold letters in the middle of the tissue-thin square, Crowley has written “BEST ANGEL BITS” and around those words, filling every part of the paper, at all angles, illustrated in Crowley’s own inimitable stick-figure style, are things he loves about Aziraphale. So many of them. Some silly. Some sweet. All enough to bring a lump to Aziraphale’s throat as he turns the frame this way and that to read them all.

He touches one or two, laughs, tries to fight down tears that are determined to fall, his heart in his throat, utterly overwhelmed.

“S’not much, I know,” Crowley mumbles into his arms. “But wanted to say it.”

Aziraphale reaches out blindly to bury his fingers in Crowley’s hair. “It’s perfect,” he says, his voice quivering. He curls his fingers and feels Crowley shiver under his hand. “This is my favourite.” He slants a sidelong glance down at Crowley’s ducked head. “Especially over the… sparkly one.”

Crowley makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a choked laugh, muffled in his arms. “Yeah?”

“Very much so,” Aziraphale tugs gently on his hair, urging him to lift his head. Golden eyes peep out at him, eyebrows arching hopefully over them. “Oh, come here, darling,” he says, tugging with a little more insistence, and at once, the frame is displaced and there’s a demon on his lap instead.

“You’re soft,” Crowley informs him, though his own voice is hardly an example of steady.

“I am,” Aziraphale agrees, spreading his fingers on Crowley’s scalp and curling them to twist just enough. Crowley shudders, clutching at the front of his dressing gown. “And you are too, aren’t you, my love?”

“I deny everything,” Crowley murmurs against his lips. “Can’t prove anything.”

The picture frame propped beside the couch says otherwise.

“Oh hush.” Aziraphale silences him with a kiss, which becomes another, and another, lips gliding against each other, parting, tongues darting and licking and devouring.

Somehow, they list from vertical to horizontal on the couch, tangled up in their outsized dressing gowns and one another. Crowley tugs at Aziraphale’s belt, a single yank unravelling it, and he slips his hand between the folds, tweaking every button of Aziraphale’s pyjamas undone. His fingertips skirt dangerously close to tickling across the angel’s ribs, then slip over them to trace playful circles on Aziraphale’s bare back.

“What d’you fancy?” he asks, all bright-eyed and pink-cheeked and swollen-lipped.

There are so many choices, but in that moment, Aziraphale can only think of one thing.

“May I… be in you?” he asks, the tips of their noses brushing.

Crowley stares at him for an eternal, breathless heartbeat, then snaps his fingers. His pyjamas vanish like morning mist, though Aziraphale laughs.

“Kept the dressing gown on, I see.”

The demon makes a face and slips his hand down Aziraphale’s back to shove his pyjama bottoms down. “It’s cosy,” he says, then gives a peculiar little squirm of his body that brings him utterly beneath Aziraphale, his thighs a soft bracket around Aziraphale’s hips. He gives an authoritative squeeze. “Some time today, angel.”

Aziraphale dips down to shut him up with another kiss. It’s slow and lazy and Crowley’s fingers sink into his hair, curling and pulling, and between one breathless little sigh and another, he presses closer and – their eyes meeting – he sinks into the warmth of Crowley’s body.

Those long, skinny legs encircle him as they move together. There’s no rush, not like the last urgent messy time, and the kisses turn into playful bites and nips to neck, ear, shoulder. Crowley’s nails dig into Aziraphale’s back and beneath them, the couch creaks with every languorous roll of their hips.

When Aziraphale slips a hand between their bodies, his thumb stroking, Crowley’s eyes flicker shut and he moans contentedly into Aziraphale’s mouth, mingling with the sweetness of lychee and honey and spice. 

Aziraphale props his arm on the cushion beside Crowley’s head, watching, rapturous, as gently, tenderly, little by little, Crowley writhes and sighs and finally cries out. There’s something divine in the flush of his face, the shine of his eyes, and when he slips his greedy, grasping hands down and clutches at Aziraphale’s backside, there’s even something divine in that.

“You,” he gasps out raggedly. “You too.”

Aziraphale captures Crowley’s panted bliss on his tongue, his hips still moving. He could lie here forever, he thinks, tangled up like this, moving, moving, moving, the pleasure is a slow, steady eddy which only increases, but if he wants, if he likes, he can take his time, hold it at bay, and spend hours and days drawing every gasping cry from Crowley’s lips.

“An-angel…” Crowley keens as hands, lips and body continue to adore him. “Please… let me… let you…”

“It’s all right, darling,” Aziraphale breathes, drinking in the pleasure-drunk demon’s features. “I like taking care of you.”

Golden eyes lock onto his face and beyond the bliss and haze, Aziraphale catches a glimpse of the predator. Crowley’s lips curl back, the only real warning the angel gets before Crowley tumbles them. The fall from the couch should be bruising, but instead, they land on cushions and pillows and Crowley pins him in place.

His hair has come loose and he shakes his arms free of the dressing gown, bare and golden in the firelight, ivory and flame and glowing embers. He spreads his hands on Aziraphale’s chest, bares his teeth, and starts to move.

It’s…. it’s inhuman and serpentine the way he moves and Aziraphale’s breath stutters in his chest. Not forever, his thinks raggedly, clutching at Crowley’s sinuous hips. Not even five minutes… oh _Lord_…

“S’better, isn’t it?” There’s triumph on those smirking lips and in those golden eyes. He shifts suddenly, arching back, tossing those scarlet waves, and sweet Christ in Heaven! Crowley laughs, rough and hungry over him. “Good, angel… good… you’re close…”

Mute and breathless, Aziraphale slides one fumbling hand up Crowley’s arm, pulls him back down, pulls him close. The kiss is messy and clumsy and Crowley is laughing and still, still moving.

“Wanna see a trick?” Crowley whispers against the corner of his mouth, when his world is drowning in the demon, the air he’s breathing, the sweetness on his lips, the heat around him.

“T-trick?”

Gold eyes gleam and Lord, he should have known better, but–

Two fingers slide up the middle of his chest and he yelps in surprise when there’s the strangest sensation of corresponding pressure into his body. Crowley’s teeth flash white over him and he strokes his fingers in time with the roll of his hips and Aziraphale clutches at him, gasps out.

“H-how?”

Crowley’s lips are warm against the corner of his, tender. “Best of both worlds,” he murmurs, the push-pull of invisible fingers and the warmth of his body sending Aziraphale’s thoughts scattering like snowflakes in the wind. He knows, damn him. He knows and he giggles and he presses a third finger to Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oh _Christ_!” Aziraphale groans, sensation bombarding him on all side.

“God, I love seeing you like this.” The whisper pours into his ear like honey. “Fuck, angel, you look _radiant_.”

Good. It’s… oh Lord…

Crowley’s fingers start moving harder and they’re moving together, words turned to stuttered syllables turned to gasps and the most he can do is hold on, ride out the storm of sensation as Crowley ravages every part of him.

Lips to his ear, teeth, and purr of “I love you” finishes him and he buries his face in Crowley’s hair, shuddering with the force of his release, clings on, long and hard, long after the shudders ease, even though Crowley still rocks, gently, gently, gently.

They lie there together, hard-won breaths whispering between them.

He moves his hand, teases Crowley’s nape, his back, gentle dancing touches, a pianist upon the ivory.

Crowley sighs and hums against him, still joined, still close, still shivering happily as fresh and gentler pleasure washes through them.

“Mm,” Crowley finally murmurs. He braces his hands on Aziraphale’s chest and sits up over him. His skin glistens like starlight as he lifts his hand, pushing his fingers through the wild cascade of his hair. “That was… mm.”

Aziraphale watches him in silent admiration. The firelight suits him. He shines so beautifully.

Crowley notices, because of course he does. “You’re staring, angel,” he says with a grin.

“Counting my blessings,” Aziraphale retorts, stroking Crowley’s thigh fondly. He tucks a hand behind his head and gazes up at him. “You really are remarkable, darling. You never stop surprising me.”

Crowley laughs. “Got to keep you on your toes, don’t I?” He peers down at him. “Oh, fuck me…” He dabs at his chest. “I’m all glittery.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale peers more closely. “It must be from the wrapping paper.” He laughs. “I thought that was just you.”

Crowley snorts in disbelief, hands on his hips, which looks incongruous given that he is still very much sitting on Aziraphale’s lap. “Have I ever sparkled before?” He shakes his head. “What next? I’m a pixie?” His eyes fix on something and a grin – one of those familiar dreadful ones – spreads across his face. “Actually…”

Aziraphale tilts his head to see what he’s reaching for when he leans forward on his knees. “Oh.” The object is rather more intimidating waved near one’s face, when one is helplessly pinned to the floor. “That.”

Crowley licks his fingers then rubs the sucker. “You want a mythical creature?”

“What on earth are you doing?”

The demon grins, broad and wide and slaps the sucker to his forehead. “Look! I’m a unicorn!”

Aziraphale’s laughter explodes out of him and he clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle it and that only serves to widen Crowley’s grin. He bobs his head and the infernal thing wobbles alarmingly close. “Neigh bother, eh?”

“Stop that,” Aziraphale laughs, swatting at the damned silly thing.

“You don’t want my horn?” Crowley laments, grinning from ear to ear.

“No, thank you _very _much!” Aziraphale manages to tumble them both over and sits back on his heels. “Lord, you’ll put someone’s eye out!”

Crowley props himself up on his elbows, legs splayed, ‘horn’ swaying. “What do you think?” he says, striking a pose. “Does it suit me?”

Aziraphale tries very, very hard to school his expression. “Somehow,” he says in a voice only a little strangled, “you have managed to make yourself look more of a… dick than usual.”

Golden eyes widen, then Crowley gives a great shout of laughter. “Another!” he demands, sitting up. “Go on! Give me another one!”

Aziraphale rears back, hands up. “Lower your weapon!” he says, unable to fight the smile. “In a battle of wits, I am presently unarmed!”

“God, I love you,” Crowley sighs happily.

Aziraphale nods, unable to put together quite how happy moments like this make him. Such silly, random moments of nonsense that… oh, yes, he can forever collect in photographic form. He peers about, then spots the camera, and before Crowley can protest, whips it up and snaps a couple of photographs.

“Oi!” Crowley is suddenly an all-red unicorn, lunging for the camera. “No!”

“I’m making memories, darling,” Aziraphale scrambles up, holding the camera at arm’s length out of the demon’s reach. “Quite lovely memories of the day I met a unicorn.” He backs away as Crowley tumbles to his feet, yanking at the bobbing rubber monstrosity on his forehead. “Oh dear! Look! It’s playing with itself now!”

“Angel!” Crowley growls, abandoning his efforts to remove the ‘horn’ to prowl towards him.

“Oh my!” Aziraphale feigns dismay, backing between parcels and paper and ribbons and cushions. He remembers Crowley’s beloved nature shows and says in the awed, breathy voice of the presenter. “Here we see a rare red lesser-freckled unicorn. This remarkably shy creature has seldom been caught on camera before in its natural habitat.”

“Angel…” The twitch at the corner of Crowley’s mouth is belying his glare as he circles the room after the angel. “Give me the camera.”

“This unique specimen fiercely guards his domain,” Aziraphale gasps in continued wonder as he finds the door handle behind his back. “Its glossy mane and strong flanks mark it as a virile creature…” He leaps out into the corridor and slams the door behind him, a miracle locking it despite the lack of a key or a lock, then jogs quickly towards the bedroom.

“ANGEL!” Crowley pounds on the door.

“You shan’t take my memories!” Aziraphale calls over his shoulder, then slams the bedroom door behind him. Quick, quick, quick, a hiding place. He scans the room then dives across, rattling through several drawers and is halfway into the wardrobe before Crowley bursts into the room. Or at least the door opens and the tip of a certain object wobbles into view.

“Where is it, angel?” Crowley says, slinking into the room after it.

Aziraphale, empty-handed, stands in the middle of the floor, wide-eyed and innocent as he can be. “Where’s what, darling?”

“You know what.” He tries to step into Aziraphale’s space, but it’s rather difficult when you have a foot-long protrusion sticking off your forehead. He groans and grabs at it. “Ah, for Satan’s sake!”

“Don’t pull it!” Aziraphale reaches up. “If you don’t want a mark all day, you need to break the seal…” He slides his thumb along the sucker, flicking up the edge. It comes away in his hand at once. “There you go.”

And becomes aware of the hand in his dressing gown pocket.

“Aha!” Crowley dances back, camera in hand. “You’re terrible at hiding things, angel!”

Aziraphale huffs. “If you delete them,” he says, “I shall just have to recreate them when you’re sleeping.”

Crowley’s jaw drops. “You _wouldn’t_.”

Aziraphale wields the… object with all the menace of a flaming sword. “Try me, my darling. I have superglue.”

The demon’s face suffuses with such affection that Aziraphale can’t help blushing. “God, I love you, you absolute bastard,” he says with a happy sigh, tossing the camera onto the bed.

“I win?” Aziraphale says, beaming.

“This time,” Crowley agrees, crowding back into his space. “You win.”

Aziraphale tosses the device onto the bed beside the camera and draws Crowley closer. “Merry Christmas, my dear.”

“You too, angel,” Crowley says, smiling and warm and happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the napkin will be drawn up eventually. Not now, though. Too much happening.


End file.
